


Over Hill and Under Skirts (Out of the Frying Pan and Into Her Knickers)

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Cis Female Bilbo, Courtship, Exploration, F/M, Female Bilbo, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Humor, I'm shocked this isn't crackier to be honest, Oral Sex, Premature Ejaculation, Rule 63, Vaginal Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:12:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kink meme prompt:</p><p>Dwarf women are rare, and often so intent on their craft, that Thorin has never had the opportunity or inclination to become familiar with the more intimate portions of the female anatomy.</p><p>When he is finally introduced to that realm of hidden mystery, Thorin is quite... curious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over Hill and Under Skirts

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what happened here. This prompt (found [here](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9535765#t9535765) on the kink meme) just screams out for a wonderfully cracky fill, but this got weirdly serious, then (hopefully) rallying to funny again.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure what it is, but I wrote it. And I hope you enjoy it. <3

Billa should have questioned it from the start, should have erred on the side of prudence, but for goodness sake, no matter how strong her suspicions, it hadn’t seemed _likely_.

Of course, none of this seemed especially likely, did it? She had certainly never imagined any of this adventuring business— dwarves invading her cosy smial, trolls and stone giants, orcs and goblins, giant eagles and skinchangers. She hadn’t imagined a dour dwarven king, with a gaze as sharp and cold as the Brandywine in winter, wild hair draped like a pony’s mane and arms thicker than her thighs, smelling of smoke, leather, and some heavy spice that tickled her nose. 

Fine, yes, perhaps she had actually imagined similar adventures, _on rare occasion_ , but they were simply the overly romantic daydreams of a settled spinster, quite content to live peacefully on her own, without the headaches a suitor could bring. In her _exceedingly_ rare fantasies, the rugged king (or woodsman, blacksmith, sometimes ranger) was hardly as grim as Thorin Oakenshield, nor as harsh in his opinion of her. In fact, most parts of actual adventuring were harsher, more unpleasant, than the silly stories in her head. 

Some parts were better, however. She had never imagined she would ever be blessed with such a feeling of family again, after her parents had passed, but these dwarves... they were the brothers she had never had, and the playful cousins she had lost to the inevitability of age and responsibility.

Brothers and cousins, and Thorin, forever apart. Forever something else, something strange she could not quite place.

But then Thorin had pulled her aside before they’d left Beorn’s hospitality, herding her out onto the sprawling veranda in the pale light of dawn. The bruises on his face were still dark and fearsome, stains of deep indigo bleeding out to sickly greenish edges; the figure he cut in the chill of morning, under the mane of his hair and the grim furrow of his brows, had made Billa bristle with tension, defensive and nervous.

Until, of course, he’d reached beneath his great furred coat and pushed the slightly squashed wreath into her hands, raggedy pink gillyflowers and glossy rose hips woven together so tightly their stems oozed sticky liquid onto her fingers, filled out lushly with curls of ivy.

When he had touched the smooth skin of her jaw, callused fingers dragging so very gently, she should have questioned the curiosity lighting up his expression then, but she brushed the feeling aside in favour of craning up for a sweet, soft kiss. Dwarf women had whiskers, after all.

And then when his kisses, whiskery enough for the pair of them thank you, eventually grew bolder in their wandering, she should have thought to question the inordinate attention he paid to the curve of her throat, running the bridge of his nose slowly from beneath her chin to the hollow at the base of her neck and back up again, over and over. But the tickling sensation was pleasant, making her shiver and curl her toes, and she fit so well in the circle of his arms. It was too lovely to risk spoiling over some vague, baseless hunch.

Even now, after all their many trials and the shadow of Erebor looming only a few miles north, Billa should have trusted her instincts and _asked_.

There was a time for propriety, a time for restraint and lingering courtship, but tucked away in Laketown with a _dragon_ waiting for them to try and steal its horde, to oust it from its roost... this was a different sort of time, indeed.

Billa had finally shaken free of the congestion and horrid malaise that had resulted from weeks of skittering anxiously around an elven palace, daring to steal little food and even less rest, followed by a terrifying trip down a frigid, churning river. Finally, she could breathe freely again, without suffering pressure as though Bombur was hunkered down upon her chest and her head was stuffed full of cotton. Finally she could let Thorin draw her close and comforting without also feeling terribly self-conscious about her dripping nose and wan, greenish complexion.

Durin’s Day was quickly approaching, her companions had repaired or remade what equipment had been ill done by Mirkwood's hospitality, and Thorin did not object to her proposal when Billa shored up a great swell of Tookish daring to whisper against the rounded shell of his ear after supper one evening. Certainly, his face had gone ruddy, his eyes had shone dark and wide, and the arm he had wound loosely around her waist had tightened, but it was not a terribly strange reaction. It was very gratifying, to be completely truthful, to imagine that such a worldly dwarf as Thorin Oakenshield, fierce warrior and displaced king, could be even partially as discombobulated by her as she felt because of him. That he might _want_ her, Billa Baggins, strange Billa, who smoked a pipe and told tales at the Green Dragon and wore breeches as often as she wore skirts. Odd old spinster, Billa Baggins, without husband or children in her sprawling smial.

She was no stunning dwarven beauty— Gloin’s fair wife was the epitome of that standard, apparently. Her tiny portrait showed a woman with a broad nose and heavy brows, a mass of swirling, braids, and a long, sweeping beard combed back into her hair. The locket did not show more than her head and shoulders, but Gloin had assured Billa that his darling Dorbela was stoutly built, wide of shoulder and ample of hip. That, at least, was enough to ease some of Billa’s concerns; hobbits were soft creatures by nature, tending towards plump rather than the firmer bulk dwarves favoured, but she had grown into a thick Baggins figure and the wide hips that entailed, rather than the ranginess of a Took.

A few of the others (Fili and Kili especially, but Nori and Bofur as well), had paid her a few subtle, friendly compliments in the earlier days of their journey, long before Thorin had made his interest known. She was not repugnant to these stocky dwarven folk, she discovered; she was, in fact, considered rather comely by some, and most importantly, adored by one in particular. And, despite their truly obscene abundance of hair, their potently earthy odour, and sharp stony edges where she half-expected roundness, Billa was not repulsed by her dwarven companions either.

So Billa had whispered a bold offer against Thorin’s ear, her cheeks warm from more than the flames of the hearth, and Thorin had answered with a long look and a short nod, before lacing their fingers together and allowing himself to be drawn up from his seat by the fire and led away.

When the door of his room closed behind them, Billa had been unsure what to expect; Thorin had so far been consummately tender in all their intimate dealings, carefully reserved but quite obviously interested. His kisses could be chaste and sweet as spun sugar, or deep and searching enough to have her quaking, with her heart pounding beneath her ribs and heat curling low in her belly. But even in the dark of night, curled close under a bedroll to share warmth and long, lingering kisses Billa felt turn her spine to jelly, Thorin’s hands had never wandered far, tracing over her shoulders and through the length of her hair, or holding her high upon her waist and back.

Now, with such dangers awaiting them in the coming days, Billa desired more of her sweetheart, if he was willing to give it.

Leaning back against the door, Billa took his other hand in hers as well, bringing their clasped hands up to brush kisses across his scarred, roughened knuckles, pulling him close.

“Kiss me,” she said, smiling up at his hesitant expression. “Please?”

And Thorin did so, leaning down to meet her with eagerness. He did not flinch away when she brought his hands to her waist, groaning low against her mouth as his fingers tightened, gripping skirt and the flesh of her hips beneath. He panted into her hair when she bit at the side of his neck, raising faint red marks upon his skin that delighted her deeply, and when she urged his hands to slide down, to grip her thighs, Thorin lifted her with thrilling ease.

“Take me to bed,” she said, still smiling, and scraped her teeth along the lobe of his ear when he answered with a wounded, breathy noise.

The bed was cushy beneath her back, though not as nice as her own feather mattress back in Bag End, and very roomy (by virtue of its man-sized make). Billa had, perhaps, chosen this dress from her recently donated wardrobe with certain illicit activities in mind; her new clothes were cut for the children of men, of course, but this mossy green shift was one of the simplest of the lot, without laces, layers, or tiny buttons, and particularly easy to remove.

On the road, she bound her breasts under linen, secured for comfort as they trekked rough terrain and stumbled into the occasional mortal peril. This night, Billa had left her laces loose, and revelled in the glassy, wondering look that overtook Thorin’s face as she shimmed out of her bodice. Freeing her arms, pushing the dress down to her waist but no further, Billa scooted up the mattress and reached out, taking hold of Thorin’s arms where he hovered above her, only one of his knees braced awkwardly upon the mattress while the other foot remained on the floor.

Tugging his forearms once, lightly, Billa released him to stretch her arms above her head, grabbing hold of a pillow. Thorin’s gaze trailed over her, lingering on the tips of her breasts pebbling beneath thin linen; the weight of his attentions felt nearly as good as a caress. Nearly.

“Billa, you...” His voice reminded her of the deep blue smoke of dwarven pipeweed, burning rich and rough. It grew rougher for a moment, Khuzdul grinding out from his back teeth like the rasp of sandpaper over gnarled wood, before mellowing to hoarse Westron again. “What would you have me do, my lass? Tell me.” 

The question scorched through her, making her fingers twist into the pillow, and Billa swallowed back a few wordless sounds before finding her answer. “Undress.” Pressing her flushed cheek against her arm, Billa watched Thorin breathe deep and shuddering. “Will you let me see you, Thorin?”

Even without his coat, Thorin was still too intricately layered for Billa to attempt anything beyond prompting him to shuck his gear; she was more likely to get them both tangled or end up in a pile of grumpy dwarf and giggling hobbit than she was to undress him properly. Such a task would require practice, which she would be more than happy to gain later, once all this dragon business was sorted. For now, efficiency would do nicely. 

She still stared intently as he unbuckled and unlaced himself, and amazingly he looked no smaller as armour was shed. Unable to lie back and simply observe, Billa waited until he was stripped to shirtsleeves before sitting up, catching him around the ribs and pulling herself close enough to steal a kiss.

He groaned at the press of their chests together, gritting his teeth as his arms wrapped snugly around her back, and Billa peppered kisses at the corner of his lips. “Touch,” she said softly, oddly certain that clear permission was needed, and Thorin groaned again, sounding altogether pained.

“Where,” he whispered into her hair, burying his face, so she moved her kisses to his shoulder, tugging the neck of his shirt aside to find hot skin.

“Everywhere,” she whispered back, her lips upon him, and felt his shiver.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin?” Dragging herself up from lying completely prone took great effort, given how tightly strung she felt from the _ages_ Thorin had spent toying with her now-tender breasts, but Billa managed to prop her head against the pillows, craning her neck. His hair was soft between her fingers, not silky but not exactly coarse either, and damp with sweat as she combed it away from his furrowed brow. “What's wrong?”

She was, admittedly, beginning to feel rather... exposed. When Thorin had finally given in to her pleading and dragged his attention downward, Billa had been over the moon, already slick and thrumming between her thighs.

But he hadn't dove upon her with fierce determination, as she expected based on the treatment of her breasts. He hadn't even _touched_ her yet, except to stroke his hands slowly along the outside of her bare thighs, and Billa was beginning to grow concerned. And perhaps a little uncomfortable— he was staring at her bits with what appeared to be a blend of confusion, fascination, and even a wee bit of fear flickering bright in his eyes. Billa barely resisted the urge to twist and snap her legs shut in the face of such odd, wholly engrossed scrutiny.

“Is it... different?” She hadn't considered the possibility that she would appear so very strange down there, when dwarven women did not outwardly appear entirely different from hobbits. Arms and legs, similar faces, same number of fingers and toes... And Thorin did not look bizarre compared to a naked hobbit gentleman, though he was larger in nearly every sense, harder, rougher around the edges, and entirely, breathtakingly _handsome_.

Tugging Thorin's hair, Billa tried to wrest his attention back up to her face, and was somewhat relieved when he finally met her eyes again. “Thorin? Am I so strange compared to dwarf women?”

She hadn't intended for her voice to sound so unsteady, but they had come so far, and she truly wanted him with all her heart. Not merely as a lover, either, but as the sort of partner he murmured to her when they laid together, and his fingers plaited idle braids over her ears. As a husband, as he had asked her; she wanted him by her side.

And she wanted him in her bed.

“Strange,” Thorin repeated, and though it sounded much more like a question than validation of her concern, Billa still felt her stomach give a sickly flutter. “I haven't... Billa.”

The feel of Thorin's broad hand laying over her anxious belly, spanning the small podgy pot that their adventure hadn't managed to starve from her frame, was somewhat soothing, but she was certain an _explanation_ would serve better.

“There have always been very few dwarven women,” Thorin said after a long few moments of silence, during which Billa had managed valiantly not to squirm. “And far fewer still among my people, after Erebor's fall. None I would... dally about. And none I wished to bind myself to, until you.”

Oh goodness.

She should have asked the moment she had even a shadow of an inkling. She should have _asked_ , confound it all, but she had never seriously considered that Thorin would be... that he would never have...

He was very nearly four times her age, so handsome he weakened her knees, and a king besides. The thought that he'd never—

Oh _no_ , she could _absolutely not_ say a word of that aloud. The very last thing she wished at this point was to make Thorin at all embarrassed by his lack of experience; she would _never_ forgive herself if she made him feel poorly about such a thing.

He was _hers_ , hadn't he said so?

“Well now, if you would like to explore,” she said, rather than any of the hundred other things jostling for position in her mind, and cupped her hand against his jaw. “I am more than willing to help you along the way.”

It was particularly difficult to bite back all allusions to Thorin's sense of direction, or lack thereof, but Billa was determined. If he continued as he had been going, before becoming enthralled by her privates, she was actually very optimistic about his potential.

Thorin blinked at her, not quite wary, and rubbed his thumb over the divot of her navel, tickling faintly. “I... yes. Yes.”

Moving slowly, cautious like one might sneak past a sleeping bear, Thorin drew back again, resuming his former position between her legs. Billa flexed, spreading her knees wider, and did not flinch at the first hesitant brush of fingertips against her inner thigh.

“Wet,” he said, then glanced up, lifting his brows questioningly.

“Wet is good.” Billa smiled crookedly, shifting to press her toes along the firm wall of his side. “I've been enjoying things so far, quite a lot.”

Of course, Thorin puffed up at that announcement, doubtlessly pleased with himself, but Billa would hardly fault him the rise in confidence. Instead, she tilted her hips, lifting her bum from the mattress until Thorin's knuckles brushed against her damp thigh.

“In your own time, of course,” she said, daring a mild, cheeky push to continue. It earned her a low, rumbling noise and the return of Thorin's fingers, straying farther.

The first touch against her curls, so light she might have accused him of heinous teasing, sent a fine tremor through her, raising gooseflesh. The touch firmed, so very gently, until he was just barely pressing against warm, wet flesh.

“You've been hiding your beard, my love,” Thorin murmured, startling her enough to let her laugh ring out unchecked, and rested his head against her thigh. He was watching her privates with hawklike focus again, curious but smiling, and his fingertip began trailing gingerly down her seam, then back up again. “And such a lush little beard it is. My beautiful— Oh!”

Billa bit her lip, immediately apologetic for startling him with a sudden jerk of her hips, but truly, he was walking a fine line between learning and driving her mad. Her thrust had popped the tip of his finger just inside her folds before he'd snatched his hand back, and now he was studying the glistening dampness left behind on his callused skin.

Thorin touched his thumb against his finger, mouth falling open in something approaching awe as he pulled them apart, drawing a thin trail of slick fluid between them. Then he paused, cleared his throat, and turned to Billa with a determined gleam in his eyes.

“I intend to venture in.”

It was not the sort of declaration that should have made her moan— it was entirely endearing, but also quite silly and hardly the stuff of her fantasies.

They had both done seemingly impossible things on this journey, however, and with any luck at all, they would continue to do a few more. Slaying a dragon and reclaiming a kingdom came to mind, as well as plighting her troth to a dwarven king, of all the mad notions.

She _should not_ have felt hot and squrimy all over at the thought of Thorin delving into her privates with the same eager sense of adventure he might bring to the exploration of some mysterious cavern. That should not have made her toes curl and her breathing hitch, for goodness sake.

And yet.

“I'll make certain you find your way,” she said, possibly a bit breathless already, and braced herself for the expedition.

 END


	2. Out of the Frying Pan and Into Her Knickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the fuck, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Stop being so awkwardly adorable, Thorin, you prick. _Thank you and good morning._

“I intend to venture in.” His voice, mercifully, was steadier than his current constitution. The low, breathy sound Billa made in return was encouraging, as was the sight of her fidgeting eagerly beneath him, all mussed hair and flushed cheeks.

“I’ll make certain you find your way,” she said, favouring him with such an adoring smile, and Thorin shored up his nerve. His dear Billa was not some beast to be feared, though she could be such a fierce little thing.

Taking a deep breath was more distracting than it was helpful. Thorin had never smelled anything quite like the scent between Billa’s legs: salty, faintly musky, and uniquely hospitable in some strange way he could not place. It was oddly pleasant, and he leaned closer, sniffing in a way he hoped was more subtle than it felt.

His fingers were drying, going sticky, but Thorin could see the thatch of brown hair was damp with more, curling dark and wet around the pinkness hidden beneath. It looked... it looked like a wound, open and vulnerable as though she had been sliced wide and left to bleed. The wetness, though clear, still called to mind images of dripping red and injury, of Billa suffering beneath the sting of steel, and dread welled up in his gut at the thought of causing her pain.

He was not completely ignorant, even without the benefit of practical knowledge; he knew her private parts were not a true wound, but that did not quell his concerns. Billa was impossibly tiny, though her courage was big enough to fill the vaulted halls of Erebor. How was he meant to... _enter_? He had heard tales of sheets spotted crimson and weeping maids, of pain even when great care was taken, and he was beginning to understand why.

He stopped, agonizingly unsure, and was wise enough to look up to her for guidance.

“You can touch,” she assured him, her own clever fingers petting gently through his hair, and Thorin shook his head, careful not to dislodge her.

“Does it...” Uncurling his fingers from where they had retreated against his palm, Thorin reached out and stroked the soft, pale flesh of Billa’s thigh, edging slightly closer to the small mound of hair. “It looks so soft... so raw. Delicate. Are you certain— my hands are rough, large, and you, _this_ —”

“I’m entirely certain.” Billa tugged at his hair, coaxing him away. Despite her smile, her brave words, he must have frightened her; Thorin winced, wholly gutted at the thought, but it was better to know now, before he could harm her—

“That’s an awful scowl for such a handsome dwarf,” Billa said, and Thorin allowed himself to be drawn up, until his head pillowed upon her freckled shoulder while the rest of his bulk lay safely beside her on the expansive mattress. Her small hands were cool against his face, sliding across his brow and over his cheeks, and her eyes were sober, steely blue beneath the sweep of her lashes.

“Your hands,” she said, leaning close to press a kiss between his brows before resting her own forehead there. “Are callused, and strong, and entirely you, Thorin Oakenshield. And if it’s not been made clear yet, I am more than a little fond of _you_. All of you.” Her hands grasped his own, pulling, and Thorin could not stifle his flinch when she pressed his palm against her hip.

“Billa—”

“I am unbearably fond of every single inch,” she continued, shifting her grip to his wrist, then moving upward, scraping short nails over his forearm. “And I promise it’s not nearly as fragile as you think it looks. I know I’m soft all over compared to you, but I’m hardly made of petals and dandelion fluff, am I?”

He grunted, permitting his hand to lightly squeeze her hip, as he might test the ripeness of a peach. “Of course not.”

“Hm, of course not.” She kissed him then, sucking briefly at his upper lip, and Thorin revelled in the familiar pleasure, chasing her mouth as she murmured at him. “I love your hands,” she said, between mingled breaths. “I am not afraid, Thorin; I won’t be hurt. Trust me.”

“But you are so _tiny_.” He struggled to find the proper words; he _did_ trust her, with his body and his heart, with all that he was. Whether he could trust himself was the question that plagued him. “And I... How am I meant to fit?”

“Snugly.” Before Thorin could protest her flippancy— Durin’s beard, he would rather feed himself to the dragon than cause her tears— his thoughts were suddenly overturned by the squeeze of her hand around his faltering cock. “And _perfectly_. Every part.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin didn’t dare breathe, and pointedly ignored the thunderous drumming of his heart; he pressed fractionally deeper and watched with fascination and alarm as his middle finger slipped into Billa’s angrily pink flesh, disappearing to the second knuckle. The glide was too easy, too slick to keep adequate control, and his finger was too large for such a small—

The lavish sigh she exhaled was startling, both in its enthusiasm and its familiarity. He had heard her make such a delighted sound before, and quite recently— she’d sighed just as blissfully over the rich, sugar-glazed spice cakes the men of Lake Town had served during their great welcoming feast, before polishing off three thick slices all by herself.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, with the slightest roll of her hips, and Thorin swallowed as a sudden tightness seized his throat. He did not retreat, but neither did he move any farther inside, frozen.

After a few moments, Billa seemed to understand his need, reaching down to guide his way beyond this strange stumbling block. Thorin sagged with relief, allowing her to turn his hand and extend his thumb.

“Here, gently,” she said, and steered his thumb to burrow higher than his finger, parting hair and finding a small, firm bump beneath. At his first touch, a smooth glide directed entirely by her hold upon his hand, Billa let out a quiet, reedy whine.

The noise shivered through him, not with fear but with heat, tempering his nerves.

Cautiously, he slid his thumb over the nub again, mimicking the same pressure and speed, and earned another pleased sound. The wet, velvety grip around his finger tightened for a moment, and he was struck quite unexpectedly the thought of how remarkable such softness might feel enfolding his cock.

“Good, so good, my dear Thorin.” She smiled down at him, bright as sunrise, and he felt an answering expression lift the corners of his mouth. “Just like that.”

 

* * *

 

“My _mouth_?” He had already tasted her fluids from his fingers, strange and faintly tart. The thought of more... was intriguing.

“Your mouth,” she repeated, her pink tongue darting out to wet her own lips. “Would make me very happy.”

Even without that compelling encouragement, Thorin found himself eager to comply. So eager, in fact, that Billa did eventually shove him away, with her heel planted against his shoulder.

Her chest was heaving in great, shuddering breaths, her creamy skin flushed with blotches of deep pink and her hair tufted riotously from thrashing against the pillows. Thorin was panting as well, his beard soaked and fragrant; his jaw and tongue were sore from following her instructions so enthusiastically, keeping pace and repeating his lessons even after he drove her to wordless keening, but it was better than the satisfaction of aching muscles after a glorious fight.

“Come here, you brilliant dwarf—” Billa clutched at his hair, yanking him up, until he blanketed her with his body, resting in the warm cradle of her arms. She kissed him fiercely, deep and sloppy and flavoured by her own sweet musk, and Thorin could not help his desperate rutting against her thigh. By Mahal’s hammer, the _sounds_ she’d made while his tongue wriggled and pressed against her had scorched through him, setting his blood ablaze.

When she urged him onto his back, Thorin rolled over easily; she had yet to lead him astray in this new adventure, soothing his misgivings with patience and bringing him such astonishing joy. She had him reeling, drunk on her taste, her scent, and the bounty of her flesh.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, gathering her close as she clambered onto him, her still quivering thighs parting to straddle his stomach. With a hand wiped clean on the bedspread, he reached up, carding through her hair to push the wild curls away from her sweat-damp neck. “You astonishing little lass. My bold Shire beauty; my beloved queen.”

“My sweetheart,” she said quietly, her voice gone thick with sentiment, and leaned down to press a kiss against the centre of his chest. Such a simple endearment, but Thorin felt the word burrow deep within him, filling some cold, dark place with bright sunlight and her laughter. Another kiss against the base of his throat followed, then one against his mouth, tender and slow. Her lips were softer than the flowers he had woven into her courting wreath, and plumped to deeper ruddiness by their lovemaking.

When she slid her body down, _just so_ , the brush of sodden curls and plush flesh against his straining erection was almost more than he could bear. His spine arched, his hips snapping, and he gasped a broken, punched-out noise when she canted back against his impulsive movements, letting the head of his cock slip between her folds.

“Would you like to,” she whispered against his chin, and he managed to groan a strangled _yes_ , even as his hands scrambled to grip her waist, and his heels dug hard into the mattress.

His explorations had not prepared him for this, to be engulfed in the hot, wet clench of her— decades of spilling into his own fist had not prepared him for this fulsome warmth and softness, drawing him inside like a hand into a glove.

Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Billa’s fair face going lax with such pleasure as she lowered herself upon him, for the cooing sounds she made as he stretched her wide, and _oh_ , there was not a single flash of pain or hint of tears to sour this moment. It was as though she had been made for him, or him for her— as if Mahal himself had fashioned them as two halves, and fortune had brought them here, whole again. That notion, this moment, _Billa_ —

In that one bright instant, Thorin _broke_ , pulling her down against him, flush and firm. Coiling pleasure released, pouring through his muscles like molten steel, a great wave overtaking his mind and body.

It was only a moment, the span of a few ragged breaths, that thoughtless surge, and then Thorin was coming back into himself, shuddering and gasping for air like the bellows of a forge. Perched above him, Billa was running her hands over his chest and up his neck, as though she were gentling a pony.

He, Thorin son of Thrain, had lost control of himself like a callow lad. If the ground chose that moment to split open beneath their bed, Thorin would sink into it willingly, burying both himself and his shame.

“No, wait, Thorin, _no_ —” Billa wiggled, making Thorin's cock twitch pitifully where he softened inside her, and took hold of his jaw, turning him away from suffocating himself in a pillow. “Listen to me, you stubborn sod.”

There was nothing to say, but Thorin grumbled in Khuzdul, berating his own weakness and selfish failings, until Billa silenced him with a sharp tweak to his nose.

“ _Listen_ , I said.” She bent, butting their foreheads together in a gesture of affection he had taught her, and disgrace sat cold in Thorin's gut. “None of that, whatever it was. And stop looking so gloomy, as though you've disappointed me. You haven't— not one bit.”

“Did I not,” he muttered crossly, bristling under her pity.

“No, you didn't. Smarten up.” Her hand slapped lightly against his cheek, hardly a tap, and Thorin took hold of her wrist, glaring. The arch look she levelled back at him was not even slightly cowed. “Thorin, love, you'll make me doubt your dwarven stamina if you keep carrying on like this. You were so worked up just tending to me— which you did marvellously, by the way, bringing me over my peak _five times_ , for goodness sake— I was surprised when you didn't just finish all over my belly.”

Billa's wrist twisted free of his loosened grip, and her fingers tangled with his own, their clasped hands coming to rest upon his chest.

“You haven't left me unsatisfied in the slightest,” she said, pecking him once more on the lips before tucking her head into the crook of his neck. “Now hush, and hold me close a while. I fully expect you to be ready to go again before dawn.”

The lamps were still burning low, as they had been when he and Billa had tumbled into his room, and Thorin stared up at the shadowy rafters. Eventually, before Billa's snuffling against his neck could grow too sleepy, he spoke.

“Did I... It was good?”

Slung over his chest, Billa's arm tightened, and she hummed into his skin without lifting her head.

“ _Five times_ , Thorin.” Five times; there, in the privacy of their shared bed, Thorin found himself sporting a small, foolish sort of grin. “Silly old dwarf,” she tacked on, a mumbled afterthought that was unmistakably fond. His grin grew, and he pressed it against her hair.

As tension bled away, so did his keen attention, giving way for a comfortable weariness. Catching a fortuitous edge of the rumpled quilts, Thorin rolled them both gently over and under enough covers to ward off the chill. Keeping her held safely in his arms, they slotted side-by-side like spoons in a drawer.

END (really and truly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so we're all on the same page, Thorin's fears about blood and weeping maidens were completely unfounded with Billa— hobbits relish the pleasures of life, and she's quite a bit more experienced with sex than Thorin. He won't be bothered by it, when he finds out, and she isn't keeping it secret on purpose.


End file.
